I know there’s an obvious right choice here, but I do not make it.
“Oh yeah. Just got married.”
Oh God. Why? Why does my mouth do this? That was honestly the worst choice. Because now, when we return home, I’m going to have to pretend to be married whenever I run into Mr. Hamilton—which could be daily—or fess up to getting fake divorced immediately after the fake wedding.
Gah.
His smile is so big it lifts the mustache. The therapist is relieved the weird moment of tension is gone and excuses herself with a smile. Still beaming, Mr. Hamilton reaches out, shaking my hand. “Well, now, that is some wonderful news. Where was the wedding?”
At least here I can be truthful: “At the Hilton, downtown St. Paul.”
“My gosh,” he says, shaking his head, “just starting out. What a blessing.” He leans in and winks. “My Molly and I are here celebrating our thirtieth anniversary, can you believe it?”
I make my eyes round, like it’s just wild that this white-haired man has been married for so long, and fumble through some noises about that being amazing and exciting and you must just be . . . so happy.
And then he takes out a metaphorical anvil and knocks me into the floor: “Why don’t you two join us for dinner?”
Me and Ethan, sitting beside each other at a table, having to . . . touch, and smile, and pretend to love each other? I stifle a chortle.
“Oh, we couldn’t impose. You two probably never get away together.”
“Of course we do! The kids are out of the house—it’s just us two all the time. Come on. It’s our last night, and I’m sure she’s sick of me, to be honest!” He lets out a hearty laugh. “It wouldn’t be any imposition at all.”
If there’s a way out of this situation, I’m not coming up with it fast enough. I think I have to bite the bullet.
Smiling—and hoping I look far less terrified than I feel—I give in. I need this job, and am dying to land in Mr. Hamilton’s good graces. I’m going to have to ask Ethan for a huge favor. I’m going to owe him so big, it makes me want to hurl.
“Sure, Mr. Hamilton. Ethan and I would love that.”
He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Call me Charlie.”
• • •
THE HALLWAY WEAVES AND ELONGATES in front of me. I wish it weren’t just an illusion born from dread, and that it really were five miles to our suite. But it isn’t, and sooner than I’d like, I’m back at the room, half praying that Ethan is out doing somethi
ng amazing until tomorrow, and half praying that he’s here so we can make it to dinner with Mr. Hamilton.
As soon as I walk in, I see him sitting on the balcony. Why is he in Maui, hanging out in the hotel room? Although, now that I think about it, it sounds lovely. I grow instinctively itchy at the prospect of sharing the homebody gene with him.
At least he’s changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and has his bare feet propped up on the ledge. The wind blows his dark hair all over his head, but I imagine him squinting judgmentally out at the surf, silently telling the waves they could do better.
When I move closer, I see that he’s holding a cocktail in a highball glass. His bare arms are tanned and toned; his legs are surprisingly muscular and seem to go on forever. For some reason I expected that, in shorts and a T-shirt, he’d look like a string bean with awkward limbs bending at odd angles. Maybe it’s because he’s so tall. Or maybe it was just easier to tell myself that only his face could be pretty, and he’d be gnarled and gangly beneath his clothes.
Quite frankly, he’s so well-rounded physically, it’s a little unfair.
I slide open the door as quietly as I can; he looks pretty relaxed. I’m sure he’s thinking about drowning puppies, but I’m not here to judge. At least not until after he’s had dinner with my boss. Then it’s on.
I realize I’ll need to be charming, so I slap a smile on my face. “Hey there.”
He turns, and his blue eyes narrow. “Olivia.”
Wow, I am getting sick of his stupid name game. “What’re you up to, Elijah?”
“Just enjoying the view.”
Well, that’s . . . nice. “I didn’t know you did that.”
He blinks back out to the water. “Did what?”